


Solitude Shared is Loneliness Halved

by Ciesste



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:35:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22196401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ciesste/pseuds/Ciesste
Summary: This was supposed to be up ages ago, but my body decided to throw up the white flag and give into whatever sickness is currently floating around. Thanks, body.Sorry for the delay and I hope y'all enjoy reading!Happy (belated) New Year!
Relationships: Edward Elric/Roy Mustang
Comments: 4
Kudos: 52
Collections: FMA Gift Exchange 2019





	Solitude Shared is Loneliness Halved

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Deminia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deminia/gifts).



> This was supposed to be up ages ago, but my body decided to throw up the white flag and give into whatever sickness is currently floating around. Thanks, body.
> 
> Sorry for the delay and I hope y'all enjoy reading!
> 
> Happy (belated) New Year!

Roy’s temples throbbed and he grimaced, massaging them. Gloved fingers encountered the hard plastic of his sunglasses; he sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose instead. As if experiencing New Year’s Eve alone wasn’t enough of a gut punch, now he was liable to spend it sick and dizzy from medicinal side effects and eye strain.

Further up the snow-slicked road, heat and a bubble of noise warmed the air as a door opened on the sounds of a jingling bell. A crowd of people trundled from inside the building, huddling into their coats and exclaiming over the weather, as if it was somehow surprising that it was _still_ cold outside.

Another lance of agony shot through Roy’s brain as moonlight glinted off the snow at just the right angle to sear his eyes. Trying not to hiss as the group passed lest they get a mistaken impression, he averted his eyes from their cheer and the street’s brightness and ducked into the building’s comparative darkness. Warmth and layer of hazy shadows swallowed his senses, soothing the flaring heat at his temples. According to the doctor, potential triggers such as noise and light were to be avoided while he was recovering.

Perhaps he should’ve accepted Maes’s offer of shuttling Roy straight home from the hospital. But then, it would’ve been Maes, and Gracia, and Elicia, and pictures, and—

Proof positive he was forever a close, but tangential aspect, of another’s family unit.

Then again, it wasn’t like being surrounded by strangers was changing anything for him. Existing on the outskirts of a crowd still meant he was an outsider.

Sighing, Roy glanced around. Shapes manifested as his eyes struggled to take in the new scene, until the image coalesced into tables, chairs, wide-screen, mounted televisions, and a sleek, silver bar. Dozens of people stood in the room, shouting in overlapping voices that indicated just how much liquor had already been poured in honor of the year’s end. The smell of greasy, fried food sat like a weight beneath the noise.

Roy’s mouth watered and his stomach roared, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten anything since the night before. Perhaps grabbing something to eat would help with the worst of the dizziness, at least long enough for him to get home.

Knowing his luck, it’d be just in time for the potential nausea to kick in.

Keeping his eyes peeled for a menu of some sort, Roy started maneuvering toward the bar and the overhead sign labeled, “Order here.” None of the patrons paid him much mind as he skirted tables, sidled past chairs, avoided tray-carrying waiters, and passed a hallway leading to the restrooms on his way to the front.

Behind the bar, a tall, broad-shouldered man with hair the color of wheat stood with his back to Roy. To his side was a shorter blonde woman, head tossed back in the middle of a laugh as she mixed a drink. Mellow jazz undercut the susurration of conversations, each soft note loosening tension in his shoulders as he waited for one of the pair to notice him.

It was ambiance with its own sense of charm and personality, the type that didn’t have to try too hard to prompt relaxation. He could find a place to perch, eat something, and then, if he possibly felt enough like himself to strike up conversation with any of the milling customers, turn the encroaching evening into something worthwhile.

The image on the televisions—some soccer match—zoomed in on the players just as one of teams scored a goal. Almost before the ball landed in the net, the bar exploded into exhilarated cheers, loud enough to almost be a physical presence. With all the weight and ferocity of a sledgehammer, it crashed into him.

A full orchestra clamored to life in his brain, crushing cymbals and banging timpani drums along every cranial nerve ending, rushing the agony in his brain straight toward a migraine. Spots burst in front of his eyes, dancing in time to the neon flashes of pain. He stumbled away from the bar and navigated toward the hallway through narrowed, teary eyes. He used his fingers to map along the wall, searching for the door.

Coming in here was a mistake—it would’ve been better for him to end up chancing the solitude and the brightness and headaches, rather than _this_ —he’d head home as soon as he recovered a little bit _—_

Relief at a potential bubble of quiet died a quick death beneath another wave of pain-doused dizziness as he twisted the doorknob and stumbled through the opening. The door closed behind him, taking half the noise with it; he caught himself against the wall and closed his eyes, panting through his mouth and trying not to topple.

“Bathroom’s the other door,” a muffled voice called. Roy almost didn’t hear as the person continued, their words nearly overwhelmed by his harsh breaths. “Didn’t you see the sign? This is an employee’s only area.”

He’d gotten the wrong door. Unbelievable. He opened his eyes a sliver, then slammed them back closed when the room’s light proved that to be a terrible idea. “A moment, if you would,” he ground out.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Ignore the pain. Exha—

“Woah, you don’t look so good,” the voice said from suddenly much closer.

Roy jerked back, then hissed when his head slammed into the wall. The orchestra added a bevy of brass instruments at full volume and he sagged against the wall, knees buckling. A vortex of darkness threatened to swallow him whole, the precursor to the yawning chasm of unconsciousness.

A hand, colder the room’s warmth could account for, wrapped around his arm. “Please don’t pass out on me. If you do, Al’ll then have _questions_.” The grip tightened.

Roy forced himself to focus on every finger, using each cold digit to ground him one point at a time. He allowed himself to be pulled gently into the room, trying and failing not to lean heavily against the stranger.

His boot kicked the side of something, and only the stranger’s grip on his arm kept him from faceplanting straight into the object. Then again, becoming horizontal at all would be a blessing at this point, no matter how it came about.

“Easy there,” the voice said, something sympathetic lacing through the tone. “Take a seat.”

One of the easiest orders he’d ever followed. Roy collapsed onto the cushy furniture and threw an arm over his eyes—knocking his glasses askew—to block out the room’s overhead light.

“Migraine?” the voice asked.

Roy groaned in answer, releasing a noise that might’ve, in a past life, been a confirmation.

“Ouch. That sucks.” A cold digit poked his arm. “You’re not going to puke on me or anything, right? Because if you are, lemme leave the room so I have plausible deniability.”

“Charming,” he mumbled. Some inner voice started making a racket about manners and how, now that he wasn’t in imminent danger of passing out, it might be nice if he remembered what those even were. Without lowering his arm, he tilted his head in the direction of the voice. “I apologize for this. I’m not feeling myself.”

The stranger snorted. “I gathered. Who are you when you _are_ feeling yourself?”

“My name’s Roy,” he managed. “I’d shake your hand, but I’d rather keep it where it is right now.”

“I’m Ed,” the voice said. “Do you make a habit of stumbling into off-limits areas looking like you’re three minutes from dying?”

Roy winced, then winced again when his body disapproved. “Apologies again,” he hissed, hoping he was relatively in the ballpark of sincere. “I imagine this isn’t how you were expecting to spend your evening.”

“Eh. It’s better than being out there.” Air brushed over his face as if Ed had gestured toward the other room. “Hey, but here’s an idea. Stop talking until you start feeling better.”

“I—”

“Nope! Don’t wanna hear it.” Despite the cheer in Ed’s voice, there was an underlying core of steel that made it clear protesting wouldn’t change anything.

That wasn’t going to stop Roy from trying, however. Flexing his hand and trying to ignore from the numbness beginning to tingle through them, Roy said, “Are you su—”

“Do you _want_ me to dump you on your ass out there with the crowd?” Roy couldn’t be sure _what_ his expression did right there, but it seemed answer enough for Ed. “That’s what I thought. Stop being contrary so that I don’t have to worry about you hurting yourself on my watch.”

Roy forced himself not to respond, lest Ed made good on his threat. And, who was he to question the man? It wasn’t as if he was going to manage to string together a compelling argument any time soon. Best would be to gain some level of coherency, then try to find some way to thank him afterward.

There was a moment of silence, as if Ed was checking to make sure Roy had listened, before he retreated, footsteps clanking across tile before going silent. Beyond the barrier of his arm, the light’s dimmed as Ed started humming something.

With the room slightly darkened, Roy chanced opening his eyes to quickly examine wherever he’d managed to find himself. The room was split in half: one side contained a desk and cabinet stuffed so full of books the wood bowed inward while the other held a small set of kitchen appliances that gleamed in the dim light. Ed strode toward a refrigerator that bracketed a stovetop set along the back of the room, his gold hair— _gold_ hair?—swaying against a lithe frame covered by a black coat. But before Roy could examine Ed any further, the glare of the surfaces proved the victor against his sight and he turned, closing his eyes again.

Ed continued humming, something that was not quite a song, but more like a recitation that blended into soothing, easy-to-ignore nonsense. While Ed distracted himself with . . . whatever it was he was doing, Roy started counting prime numbers, hoping the combined monotony distract from the furious pulse sambaing in his temples.

_Two . . . three . . . five . . . seven . . . eleven . . . thirteen . . . seventeen . . . nineteen . . ._

[x]

The smell of cinnamon both woke Roy up and let him he’d fallen asleep in the first place. Alone with a stranger. With no one knowing where he was.

If Riza ever found out, she would murder him. At least he was feeling somewhat improved. Riza would enjoy it more if she wasn’t murdering a weakened target.

Gingerly levering himself upright, he surveyed the room. Through the back windows, the moon was high in the sky, blinding in its radiance. That he could glean that much without wanting to bury himself in a cave was a small mercy; the worst had momentarily passed.

Nearby, Ed was sitting in a chair facing the kitchen, writing something with his hand palmed against his hair. The line of his shoulders was loose and relaxed, his hair near-gleaming in the moonlight. Either Roy’s presence was inconsequential, or Ed made a habit of allowing strange, pained men into the back room to let them rest.

He wasn’t sure which one he’d rather it be.

After surreptitiously checking that he hadn’t drooled during his surprise nap, he adjusted his clothing, and cleared his throat. “I apologize for falling asleep on you.”

“Awake?” Ed turned around, then smirked. “You certainly look better, not that that’s particularly hard with how you looked earlier.”

Roy fisted his hands into the plush on either side of his legs, using every trick and technique he’d leaned at the Madame’s knee to keep his face blank. If he hadn’t been using every iota of his willpower to remain stone-faced, he would’ve swallowed his own tongue.

Ed was _gorgeous_. His golden hair—and it _was_ golden, no doubt about that, even bleached white as it was in the light from outside—was matched by the burnished gold of his eyes. His features were perfection, like the template all major works of art tried to match, and . . .

If Roy wasn’t very careful, he was going to monologue the man’s beauty back to him. A whisper of air escaped his ironclad control, loud in the silence that had fallen between them. It was the only slip in his control, but even that much of a tell meant he was doomed.

Especially when Ed’s eyes narrowed, and he assessed Roy from head to toe. The calculation was a near-physical thing, as was the following slew of emotions: confusion, surprise, and delight. Ed’s smirk took on a dangerous slant and the clinical gaze burned fire-bright with interest.

Roy allowed himself a swallow, desperately searching for moisture in a suddenly dry throat.

“I’ve gotta say,” Ed began, shifting on his chair until he was leaning on the back, “tonight’s turning out to be full of surprises.” Mischief darted across his expression before he laid his head on his folded arms, the curtain of his hair sliding across his shoulders like silk.

“Ah.” Roy managed, before his brain just . . . stopped.

Danger had always gone hand in hand with safety, separated by little more than a knife’s edge. Knowing when to chase one and eschew the other existed as one of the only reasons Roy had made it so far in life.

Ed was, undoubtedly, dangerous.

This was . . . just his luck. One of the most attractive people he’d had the pleasure of seeing was challenge and fire entwined within a kind package, one who had seen him in pain and had the inclination to help instead of harm.

Roy had certainly not presented his best side, but the evening was still young. Two could play at the game. He could be graceful. Enticing. Suave. He had a myriad of tricks in his arsenal that could level the playing field and interest Ed, rewriting whatever notions he’d already concluded about the odd man who’d passed out in his back room.

Leaning forward, Roy let his hands dangle in between his knees, then angled his head so his hair ghosted artfully across his face. “You know, Ed—”

Roy’s stomach roared, and suave went right out the window. He buried his head in his hands and groaned.

The charged moment broke, shattered into irretrievable pieces as Edward laughed, loud and delighted, the tone of it somehow confirming that he _was_ laughing at Roy, _obviously_. Through chuckles that were beginning to tip closer to guffaws, Ed choked out, “Smooth, Roy. When was the last time you ate?”

It wasn’t like he could do any more damage to his image by answering. “Clearly too long ago,” he said, not bothering to remove his head from his hands.

There was the sound of something sliding across the counter before Ed’s chuckles—blessedly beginning to taper off—neared and something smooth and warmed tapped against the back of Roy’s hands.

“Please just let me have a moment alone with my embarrassment,” Roy mumbled, without bothering to move his hands.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Ed tapped him again with the object. “Hurry up and grab this before I have to set it back on the heater, would you?”

Curiosity nipped at Roy enough for him to lift his head; Ed was holding a mug at eye level, steam still rising from the top and the smell of chocolate wafting from the top. Withholding a grimace, Roy grabbed the mug and started warming his hands on it. “Thank you,” Roy said. “The uproarious laughter notwithstanding, I admit, you’ve been nicer to me than I think I deserve.”

Rolling his eyes, Ed plopped down on the seat opposite him and took a pull from his matching mug of hot chocolate. “Just ‘cause I didn’t kick your ass straight to the curb when you stumbled in here like a drunkard doesn’t mean I’m _nice_.”

“Like a drunk—” Roy puffed up in slight offense—surely, he hadn’t looked _that_ bad—before Ed reached forward and knocked a knuckle against Roy’s mug; it rang oddly, almost hollow.

Before Roy could question it, Ed saluted him with his mug. “Also, Happy New Year’s Eve, I guess. Now, shut up and drink your hot chocolate.”

Hot chocolate wasn’t typically one of his favorite winter beverages, but since everyone looked at him like he was a monster whenever he tried to avoid it, he’d gotten into the habit of suffering through the taste.

“Happy New Year,” Roy repeated on autopilot. Distantly, he noted Ed staring at him, something anticipatory in his expression, before forcing himself to take a sip.

Liquid just the right side of too hot coated his tongue, full of flavor and tickling his taste buds with a familiar, but undetectable feeling of nostalgia. Somehow, it held the perfect balance of sweet and bitter without being too bland, with a light aftertaste of cinnamon.

Roy wrenched the mug away and stared into its chocolatey depths. There was no way _this_ was hot chocolate.

He took another sip, and the second proved as true as the first. _This_ was a drink he could consume tankards of. The hot chocolate was delicious. This was _transcendent_.

He would deny, until his dying day, the noise he made upon taking his third sip. “This is _fantastic_.”

Ed was staring at him wide-eyed, a pink flush blooming on his cheeks. “I—it’s just hot chocolate—it’s my mom’s recipe?”

Roy took another large swallow, caught between savoring it and guzzling the rest down. “Clearly you’re not the only thing she did right in this world,” he said, licking the backs of his teeth to chase the rest of taste.

His words caught up with him as Ed’s flush deepened toward crimson. He blanched, wishing there was more hot chocolate to drown himself in. Heavens, but he hadn’t been this awkward around another person since he’d discovered the truth about Aunt Chris’s business, back when he’d been _eight_.

Twenty-two years of charm, blown to smithereens by a pretty face, a mug of hot chocolate, and a few gestures of kindness.

There reached a point in every person’s life where they were struck with the undeniable truth that they’d reached a point of no return. There was no recovering from the spectacle he’d already made of himself. No element of damage control, which left him with only one card left to play. . .

There was something about Ed, something that, even in their brief time together, drew Roy’s attention and prevented him from wanting to prevaricate around it.

In this particular case, honesty was going to be the best—and only—policy.

Licked his lips. Opened his mouth. “Look. Ed—”

The door to the room slammed open, inviting a chorus of chaos and noise. “Brother, are you—Oh!” The bartender stood, silhouetted in the doorframe, mouth gaping as he took in the tableau. Expression too fast for Roy to catalogue crossed his face before settling into a level of neutrality practiced enough to incite Roy’s envy. The man cleared his throat, his raised eyebrows the only sign of emotion. “Sorry, Brother. I didn’t know you had . . . company?”

Roy watched as something undefinable passed between the pair—Al raised his eyebrows further, gaze darting between the mugs in Roy’s and Ed’s hands, then back to Ed as he crossed his arms. Alternatively, Ed seemed to suddenly think the ceiling was terribly interesting.

With a soft huff, the man strode forward and smiled. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.” He held out his hand. “Alphonse Elric. Nice to meet you.”

Roy set aside his mug and reached over the back of the couch. “Roy Mustang. A pleasure.”

Al’s grip on his hand tightened, and the genial smile on his face gained a level of danger. Or was that violence?

Whatever it was, Roy couldn’t look away from it, feeling like he’d was suddenly staring down a predator. A chill rocketed down his spine, whisking the residual warmth from the hot chocolate. It’d been nice while it lasted.

“Are you having a fun time with my brother?” Al asked.

Wow, but Al’s grip was like cement. Roy flexed his hand, testing the grip, to no avail. “I am.”

In the background, Ed’s head thudded against the back of the couch. “Al, don’t you have the front of the house to run?” His voice was still directed toward the ceiling. “You know, your _job_? Which is _not back here_?”

“Winry’s covering. I just wanted to check on you, Brother. But, if I’d known you were back here with a guest, sharing _Mom’s hot chocolate_ . . . ”

Roy got the sudden feeling he was little more than an accessory to the conversation, and that there was little he could do save hang around for the ride.

Flesh sounded on flesh as Ed facepalmed, judging by the sudden muffled tone around his words. “How about I make you hot chocolate and we _talk about this later_?”

Pins and needles shot through Roy’s fingers as Al abruptly freed him. The previous aggression was gone from his face, so clearly as to make Roy question if it had ever been there in the first place.

Al tipped an imaginary hat. “All right, Brother. Just so you know, I’ll be expecting a double serving and extra marshmallows.” He turned toward the door, then smirked over his shoulder, the previous danger returned in a cherubic face as he started closing the door. “You should probably make one for Winry, as well.”

As the door was shutting, Ed called, “You know, you and Winry could just _not_ gossip about my lov—” Ed snapped his mouth shut so quickly, he _had_ to have bitten his tongue. Eyes darting around and pointedly away from Roy, he cleared his throat. “Yeah, so. That’s my brother.”

Grinning, Roy retrieved his mug and settled back into the cushions. Ending up on even-footing—even if that footing was mutual awkwardness—meant that not all was ruined. “It was an enlightening encounter, I assure you.” He took another sip, baffled when, even cooled, the hot chocolate remained delicious.

Ed scrubbed his hands over his face, muttering curses. His head snapped up and he frowned at Roy, gaze sharp and piercing. “Full disclosure, but we probably only have about five more minutes before Winry comes flouncing in here, so if you wanted to escape, now would be the time.”

“Escape?” He set the near-empty mug aside and folded his hands in front of his mouth. “Ed, that’s the furthest thing from my mind,” Roy drawled.

Heat lanced through golden eyes before determination settled in the downward slant of Ed’s mouth and clenched jaw. He straightened in his seat and tilted his head up, as imperious as a king who’d had a realization, one which they refused to be swayed from. It was like watching a force of nature take shape, one powerful enough to swallow him whole if he wasn’t careful.

The knife teetered between two choices, then tipped toward danger.

Roy let it fall.

From the other room, the crowd began counting down; the crowing of numbers filled the suddenly charged silence.

Roy couldn’t look away. His heart set off at a gallop as he leaned forward and lowered his hands.

Up close, Ed’s eyes were truly gold, like desert sands at daybreak. Gold bangs slanted across his face, moving from the force of Ed’s quickened breaths. His gaze flicked down to Roy’s lips and then back up, before he smirked.

Just as the crowed reached one and sounded out the start of the new year, Roy rasped, “Ed—”

Ed leaned forward, eyes glinting in the light, and pressed his lips to Roy’s.

It was a barely there pressure, soft enough Roy could’ve convinced himself he’d dreamed it. But even his wildest dreams wouldn’t have conjured the undeniable promise in the kiss—one sweet enough to draw him inexorably into Ed’s orbit—tempting him to chase Ed as the other man leaned back.

“We’ll consider that a freebie.” Ed’s grin was toothy and smug, like the cat who’d gotten the cream. “You’re gonna have to work for anything more.”

Feeling slightly like he’d just run a marathon but was happily gearing up for another, Roy raised an eyebrow, pairing it with a smirk of his own. “I’m not one to back down from a challenge.”

“Then that’s another point in your favor.” Ed finished his hot chocolate, then raised the mug, expression delighted. “Happy New Year.”

Roy tapped his empty mug against Ed’s. “Seems like it might be.” 

**Author's Note:**

> (This is edited, but I still feel slightly like roadkill, so I'll probably swing back through to do another pass for whatever I managed to miss!)


End file.
